Icarus Burning
by CumberPatches
Summary: Reichenbach spoilers! When John learns that his late best friend is not as dead as he'd thought, he sets out on a mission to find him. Meanwhile, Sherlock finds himself in over his head dealing with what remains of Moriarty's crime ring. Updated!
1. Just a Dream

**Title:** Icarus Burning  
><strong>Author Name:<strong> CumberPatches  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> The Reichenbach Fall  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Romance, Angst (and some Hurt/Comfort down the line)  
><strong>Main Character(s):<strong> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
><strong>Ship(s):<strong> (Eventual) Johnlock  
><strong>Summary:<strong> When John learns that his late best friend is not as dead as he'd thought; he sets out on a mission to find him. Meanwhile, Sherlock finds himself in over his head dealing with what remains of Moriarty's crime ring.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> This story is going to have several chapters, and I am planning on updating (at least) once a week. Any reviews are appreciated; I value your input!

* * *

><p><strong>Icarus Burning<strong>

**Chapter 1  
>Just a Dream<strong>

"You haven't been keeping up with your blog, Doctor Watson."

The doctor shifts uncomfortably in his chair across from the psychiatrist, who is fixing him with a concerned stare, a look that he has become accustomed to receiving from all those who know him. Always concern; as if he will someday spontaneously combust from the pain of living in a world without Sherlock Holmes.

"No – no I haven't been," he concedes, clearing his throat and casting a sidelong glance at the degrees on the wall as if he has just now noticed them.

"Is there a reason you've stopped?"

John's right leg begins to bounce slightly in agitation and he bites the corner of his left thumbnail, bringing his dark blue eyes back to the woman whose hand has stilled on her clipboard. He feels instantly angry with her and then, just as quickly, ashamed of this resentment for someone he knows is only trying to help. _She knows why I've stopped_, he thinks bitterly, _but she's going to make me to say it._

"I've been having a spot of trouble finding something worth writing about," he says simply. He clasps his hands together and leans forward with his elbows on his knees in order to hold his leg still. "Ever since Sherl – since then, I haven't been doing anything but work, really."

"Even so, it would still be a good outlet for exploring certain feelings you might be having –"

"I just don't have the time," John interrupts. He knows it is a lie. Moreover, he knows that _she _knows it is a lie. The truth is; he's just not ready to think about how he feels. Ever since he finally moved back into their old flat, it's been the same old routine. During the day he's been throwing himself into his work to distract himself, yes, but he's also been throwing himself into bottle after bottle every night at Barney's Pub down the street. Anything to keep from feeling.

Because he's afraid they might all be right and the pain might just burn him alive.

xoxoxoxox

He's having the dream again.

After he had returned from Afghanistan, his nights had been wracked with images from his service and he would wake up in a cold sweat, the sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. It wasn't long after he had moved into 221B Baker Street that the nightmares had faded, giving way to restful, uninterrupted sleep.

But in the several weeks since Sherlock's death, a new nightmare has replaced the old, familiar one. And it is even more terrible.

In the dream, he is standing across from St. Bart's; staring up at Sherlock's silhouetted form against the grey London sky. As he watches, Sherlock lifts his face towards heaven and slowly raises his arms out from his sides as mighty black wings unfurl from his back.

John screams his friend's name with such force that his chest reverberates from the effort, but no sound comes out. Sherlock does not look down as he lifts up from the roof of the hospital in a graceful arch.

And then his wings catch fire.

John is frozen in place as he watches his friend plummet towards the earth, a silent scream caught in his throat and terror gripping his heart in an icy fist. His eyes follow Sherlock's rapid descent until his body, completely ablaze, collides with the pavement.

Finally able to move again, John rushes forward to his aid, but it is too late. All that remains of Sherlock Holmes is hotly glowing ash.

xoxoxoxox

"I thought I'd find you here."

John Watson does not look up from the glass clenched in his fingers as the Detective Inspector slides onto the stool next to him. The bartender, Joe, shuffles over to take his order and Lestrade asks for a ginger beer. While Joe goes to retrieve the drink, the inspector casts his eyes around the bar, taking in the sparse clientele before settling on the doctor beside him.

He looks thinner than Lestrade remembers, the hollows of his cheeks are slightly more pronounced. He notes the dark circles under his eyes that peer out from under his sandy hair, staring at the bottles lined up behind the bar. He's wearing a thin jumper, even though it's early August, and the detective can tell that he hasn't shaved yet that day. Joe returns with the drink and Lestrade drops him a nod.

"You do realize that it's only 3:30, right?" he asks, tipping the ginger beer to his lips and trying to keep his tone as light as possible, but unable to keep the obvious worry out of his voice.

"It's my day off," John mutters in reply. He hasn't taken a sip since Lestrade entered the pub, but he can tell from the spots of pink on his cheeks that it isn't his first drink of the day.

The doctor's slumped, defeated posture stirs up many emotions in the officer; sadness, pity, concern, but most of all, guilt. He had heard from Anderson that some of the boys down at the Yard had run into John repeatedly in this very bar, always this one. It had taken a while for Lestrade to work up the courage to come see him, afraid of what he might find.

He'd always liked John Watson. His easy-going grins and compassion stood out in stark contrast to Sherlock Holmes' austerity and severity. But Lestrade couldn't think of Sherlock too much before the guilt would over-power him. It was his fault, he felt.

If only he had believed in him.

Less than a week after the suicide, evidence of Moriarty's fabricated identity as Richard Brook had been provided by Mycroft's people. Further investigation proved the evidence to be sound. Mad, impossible Sherlock Holmes had been the genuine article.

Lestrade is stirred from his musings to find himself fastened under the scrutiny of the doctor's dark eyes. He knows that he hasn't even been trying to keep the emotions from his face and that John must have read them all. He feels that he should say something, but before Lestrade has the chance to open his mouth, John slowly lifts his glass out to Lestrade.

With an exhale of grief, Lestrade clinks the bottom of his bottle against John's glass.

_To the late Sherlock Holmes, _Lestrade thinks as they both down their drinks. When Joe returns, he decides to order something stiffer.

xoxoxoxox

Someone knocks gently on the door of the examination room. John glances up from the paperwork he is just finishing as Sarah opens the door slightly and peeks her head inside. She raises and eyebrow in question and he motions for her to come in. Shutting the door behind her with a soft click, she turns to face him slowly, her hands balled up in the pockets of her lab coat. She's wearing that look: The "I know you're barely keeping it together but I'm not going to mention it" look.

"We need to talk," she says carefully, flipping her long brown hair over one shoulder with a nervous flick.

"What, breaking up with me again?" he asks with a half-hearted smile. She winces. It was a cheap shot, and he understands why it didn't work out between them, but the piteous look in her eyes has put him on edge.

"John, I think you need to take some time off."

The smile leaves his face in a flash. Time off is not an option. Time off would mean too much time on his hands. He must keep busy, as busy as he can. Fighting down the rising panic in his chest, John sets down the chart and breathes in deeply through his nose.

"No, Sarah, I need to keep working –"

"It's been over a month since Sherlock died and you've done nothing _but _work and, frankly, I'm seriously worried about you," she says, biting her lip. At the mention of Sherlock's death, his eyes become remote and hard and she wishes she could take it back. But it's too late.

"I've been taking care of and keeping up with all my patients," he says coolly, drumming his fingers against his thigh. She shifts anxiously from one foot to the other.

"Your work has been excellent, as always –"

"Then just let me do my FUCKING job, ok, Sarah?" he snaps. She flinches and his face immediately crumbles with remorse, but his outburst cements her decision. When she finally speaks, her voice is firm and brooks no argument.

"A week, John. I'll see you in a week."

xoxoxoxox

_How on earth did I get here?_

This is the question he asks himself as gazes down at the dark headstone before him.

It had been the longest week of his life. Without work to distract him, John took to strolling around London during the day, despite the resurgence of his psychosomatic limp. He grabbed his cane in hand and hobbled around, exploring all the shops he'd never bothered to stop in before.

He never set out with the intention of heading anywhere in particular and this day his feet had carried him automatically to the graveside of his late best friend. He remembers nothing of the journey, just the blur of the faces that passed by and the sound of his heat racing in his ears.

He hadn't been there since he'd said his goodbyes to Sherlock after the funeral. Now, standing in front of Sherlock's grave, he can no longer set aside the feelings he'd been more or less ignoring over the last few weeks.

They hit him with the force of a boxer landing a blow to his stomach and he finds himself kneeling in the grass, gasping as his body is wracked with sobs. A couple visiting a grave a few aisles over throw startled and then sympathetic looks his way before discretely heading back towards the entrance of the cemetery. He feels as if he has been adrift in a haze, fading in and out of existence ever since he watched Sherlock die. His trembling hands run over the familiar name and his tear-filled eyes spill over silently.

_How on earth did we get here?_

xoxoxoxox

When it happens, it is a complete accident.

On his way home from visiting Sherlock, John stopped by Tesco to buy the necessary alcohol. He had considered going to the pub, but his wallet had been taking a beating from the tab he ran down at Barney's. Also, he didn't want to run the risk of seeing any Yarders as he planned to get fully, pissing drunk.

He succeeded.

Curled on the sofa with empty beer cans littering the floor around him, John blinks a few times in an attempt to focus his eyes on the glow of the telly. He's not sure what time it is, just that the sun went down a short while ago and his eyes are heavy with want of sleep. But that might just be the alcohol. He allows his eyelids to shut for just a moment and is immediately swept up in the nightmare.

In reality it is only minutes, but when the doctor jerks awake, sending another can rattling to the floor, it feels like it's been hours. When he looks at his shaking hands, he's sure he'll find the smudge of Sherlock's ashes on his fingers. But they're bare and he presses the heel of his palms against his eyes, sitting up and feeling slightly dizzy with the movement.

He gets unsteadily to his feet and the world tips and spins around him as he shuffles toward the bathroom, putting a hand firmly against the wall to right himself. Upon reaching the loo, he grasps the sink firmly and stares at his own reflection in the glass above it. In that moment, looking into his puffy red eyes, he hates himself. He'd thought he was stronger than this.

Then he remembers the pills. For a moment he forgets everything he should know, as a medical man, and thinks only of sleeping without having to watch Sherlock burning.

They'd been prescribed to help him sleep back when he'd first returned from Afghanistan. He had taken them once, but he'd slept so deeply that he couldn't wake up the next day and he'd decided that it wasn't worth throwing off his entire schedule. But now… he needs them.

He finds them in the cabinet where he'd stored them after moving into the flat all that time ago and takes them roughly in hand.

And that's the last thing he remembers.

xoxoxoxox

When he comes to, he's not sure where he is. His eyes feel as though they have been glued together and his head as if it has been filled with sand. Slowly, his vision begins to clear and he takes in the unfamiliar ceiling. The familiar sounds of a hospital play out in the background as his mind tries to piece together what is happening.

His head lolls to the side, and beside him sits his sister, Harry. Dark blonde hair swept up in a ponytail, no makeup, bloodshot eyes, a sweatshirt that her frail frame practically drowns in, and all John can think is that he's never seen her venture out of her house looking so sloppy before. She is staring at him, not with the usual pitying look, but with an intensity that recalls their fights when they were children.

"You fucking arsehole," she spits with venom. "Don't you ever, **ever** do this to me again!"

He feels the unfamiliar tug of an IV in his arm when he goes to move the oxygen mask from over his mouth. His first attempt at speaking fails: his throat unnaturally raw. When his voice finally does come, it is a low rasp.

"What… happened?" he manages. Her eyes flash dangerously.

"What happened? You fucking overdosed, you sodding git! They had to pump your stomach! Your goddamn heart stopped! If your landlady hadn't found you," her voice hitches on a sob and she buries her face in his arm and lets the crying take over.

He watches her shoulders shake and tries to remember the events preceding this, but isn't able to actually remember taking the pills. He has no doubt, though, about what must have happened. Most likely he took some pills and, in his drunken stupor, forgotten he'd already taken some and then took more. He lets his sister cry in silence, feeling progressively more detached from everything the longer she sits blubbing against his side.

Finally the tears subside and she sits back, dragging a sleeve across her eyes. The hiccups that inevitably accompany crying jags of this magnitude cause her words to come out in a staccato.

"You're – coming – to stay – with me," she says quietly. John considers shaking his head, but decides that this fight can wait until later. He can feel want of sleep gnawing at his brain and all he wants is to pass out again. Instead, he fixes his face to look as apologetic and sympathetic as he can, giving her hand a squeeze.

"You've been out – for a while," she sniffs, her voice evening out. "Someone named Greg came by and left his regards. Also…" her voice trails off and he can tell that, whatever it is she has to say, he won't want to hear it. His stomach clenches; he somehow already knows what's coming.

"John, Sarah came by. You can't go back to work. You'll be lucky if you don't lose your license."

John feels the words settle coldly in his chest. He knew it was procedure under such circumstances, but he can't help the despair that twists his already twisted heart. Medicine is all he has left.

"You'll be going to AA with me," she says more gently. "And your therapist is going to talk to you about the steps you'll have to take so you can keep practicing medicine. She'll be by tomorrow, but for now you should probably rest."

She places a kiss on his forehead before pulling out her phone to step outside in the hall to place a call to her girlfriend. John allows his head to fall back on the pillow, overwhelmed by everything. When sleep tugs on his consciousness again, he doesn't even try to fight it.

xoxoxoxox

When he wakes again, there's another crying woman at his bedside. At first, he thinks it is Sarah with her long brown hair falling forward to obscure her face, which is buried in her hands. He's oddly touched that she still feels so deeply for him, even after all that had happened between them. He reaches out and runs a finger down her forearm. She starts and yanks her hands away, revealing that it isn't Sarah, but Molly Hooper. Now he's confused.

"Oh, Doctor Watson!" she exclaims, brushing the tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands and shaking her head. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to wake you."

He doesn't even get to ask her why she's there before she barrels onward.

"It got around the hospital that you were here and I had to come see you, you see. I feel so absolutely wretched about the whole thing. He cared so much about you, Doctor Watson; he'd never wanted this for you."

He doesn't need to ask who "he" is, and the mention of Sherlock sends pain shooting through to his core. She doesn't notice; she is too busy looking around as if to make sure they are alone, her eyes wide and a little wild.

"He made me promise not to tell anyone, not even you," she whispers urgently. Her eyes search his as if she's trying to come to a difficult decision. "But I don't think he took into consideration how deeply this would affect you."

She leans forward out of her chair then and presses her lips close to his ear. What she whispers into his ear almost makes his heart stop… again.

"Doctor Watson, Sherlock Holmes is still alive!"


	2. Somebody's Watching Me

**Title**: Icarus Burning  
><strong>Author Name<strong>: CumberPatches  
><strong>Rating<strong>: M  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: The Reichenbach Fall  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Romance, Angst  
><strong>Main Character(s)<strong>: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
><strong>Ship(s)<strong>: Johnlock  
><strong>Summary<strong>: When John learns that his late best friend is not as dead as he'd thought; he sets out on a mission to find him. Meanwhile, Sherlock finds himself in over his head dealing with what remains of Moriarty's crime ring.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
><strong>Author's Notes<strong>: I'd like to send a special shout out to Mistiquesbest and CheyanneChika for their lovely reviews of my first chapter. They really helped spur me on to keep the story going! Thank you!

* * *

><p><strong><span>Icarus Burning<span>**

**Chapter 2  
>Somebody's Watching Me<strong>

_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

Sherlock Holmes' eyes narrow slightly as he takes in the familiar sentence. When it had been originally posted back on June 16th, the words had been a welcome comfort. Even though he'd known it meant John hadn't taken his guilty plea to heart as intended, he'd been warmed (and not a little bit flattered) by his friend's unshakeable faith in him. He'd taken it as a sign of John's strength of character and knew that he would make it through his "passing" relatively unscathed. It was this confidence that had allowed him to set to his task without any distractions.

But that had been 54 days ago... And there had been no new posts since.

He hadn't had many opportunities to use the internet for extended periods of time ever since his "death," but when he had, he'd always taken a moment to check back to see if John had updated his blog. Each time there was no new update he felt a passing pang of disappointment, but this was the first he'd had enough time to properly ponder what the lack of an update could mean.

Sherlock's mind automatically whirrs through all of the different possibilities. _Perhaps he's no longer in therapy and the blog is no longer required._ _No, no matter how well-adjusted he may be, he would definitely return to therapy after I died. What if he isn't that well-adjusted and something has happened? No, Mycroft would tell me. Most likely he is simply working too hard and doesn't have anything interesting enough to write about._

Sherlock shuts the laptop slowly, unable to shake the niggling doubt at his own conclusions. He fights the automatic resistance that comes with asking anything of his brother, but he won't be able to go back to focusing unless he can put this from his mind, so he pulls out his new mobile and sends off a quick text.

**Anything new? How's John?  
>-SH<strong>

While he waits for a reply, he paces back and forth by the window, glancing through the thin, shabby curtains at the vacated and shady alleyway below that is basked in the glow of a single street lamp. The threadbare apartment belongs to one of his former clients. The advantage to not taking payments for his services: they always pay him back in favours. Lately he'd been calling in a lot of old debts. His pocket vibrates with Mycroft's response.

**No movement yet on Zaimov. John is fine.  
>-MH<strong>

Sherlock lets out the breath he didn't even realize he was holding. John is fine. Even if it is a lie, which it very well could be, it's nice to have any reassurance that John is doing alright. _If John were actually in any trouble, no doubt Mycroft would step in and take charge of the situation. He's so very good at bossing everyone around, the bastard, _he thinks sardonically. Still, the text has put him in a charitable disposition toward his elder brother, so he quickly shoots back a rare "Thanks."

Sherlock settles back on the thin mattress in the corner of the room. Weariness hits him suddenly and he recognizes that he hasn't been keeping up with maintaining his body again. Without John around to remind him to sleep and eat regular meals, those things seem to fall by the wayside. He knows that John would scold him, can imagine his reprimanding tone and furrowed brow. He would tell him to take better care of himself; especially if he is in the process of hunting down a well-trained assassin.

He makes a mental note to go out and pick up something to eat as soon as he gets done resting. He lies down and pulls a sheet over him, smiling slightly. Knowing he's doing something John would approve of makes him feel closer to his blogger than he has felt for weeks.

xoxoxoxox

It's amazing how seven simple words can change everything.

"Doctor Watson, Sherlock Holmes is still alive!"

As soon as the words pass through Molly's lips, everything in John Watson's world snaps into sharp focus. The haze he had been adrift in is gone, as if he's put on a much needed pair of glasses and can see everything with new eyes. His heart pounds in his chest and this registers audibly on the monitor that he is hooked up to, causing Molly to look frantically back and forth between him and the machine, perhaps concerned that he'll have a stroke.

He reaches up and slowly takes the oxygen mask away from his mouth, his eyes never leaving Molly's face.

"Sherlock… is alive?"

His voice is still raspy and he says the words (ones he'd never thought he'd say again) slowly, testing the way they feel on his tongue. He struggles and fails to stem the hope surging through him like a river. The words act like a cooling salve on the festering wound Sherlock's suicide had left on his heart. He can't even stop himself from saying them again, not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

"Sherlock is alive."

Molly nods her head vehemently, whispering some explanation about providing Sherlock with a cadaver and jumping into a lorry, but he barely registers her words. He just keeps replaying the same sentence over and over, feeling more and more certain of their veracity with each repetition: **Sherlock is alive.**

Suddenly, everything makes sense again… because a world without Sherlock in it had never made sense to him in the first place.

"Excuse me, you can't be in here! Visiting hours are over!" chides a rotund nurse from the doorway.

Molly practically falls over the chair behind her in her haste to straighten and make apologies to the nurse, her face flushed. She stammers her farewell to John, fidgeting her fingers nervously with the ends of her hair and casting an anxious glance over her shoulder before disappearing out the door.

"You alright there, Doctor Watson?" asks the nurse, observing the increase in his heart rate. She moves around the bed and begins to take his vitals.

"Never better," he says, dazed from shock and the drugs that still haven't quite left his system.

"Well, try to relax and get some rest then," she says as she finishes up, her tone bespeaking her disapproval of his female visitor getting him all whipped up.

When she's gone, John collapses back against his pillow, unsure of how he could ever think of resting again.

xoxoxoxox

The setting sun cuts orange swaths of light across the bookshelves in the study at the Holmes manor. Reclining in his plush green chair behind his large mahogany desk, Mycroft stares at the text in bemusement.

**Thanks.  
>- SH<strong>

It has been a very long time since his brother had expressed any sort of gratitude that was not dripping with sarcasm or disdain. _And, of all the things I've done to help him with since he "died," this is what elicits appreciation? _

With a sigh, he lays his phone on the desk next to John Watson's medical file. If he were a lesser man, he would feel guilty for lying to Sherlock about John, who was decidedly not fine. However, as a man of superior reasoning skills, he knows that it is better that Sherlock does not know that his best friend currently lie in hospital from nearly killing himself.

Besides, John Watson would be fine, physically speaking, so it wasn't really a lie.

Mycroft, at Sherlock's behest, had been keeping a close eye on the young doctor. Well, not personally, of course, he has people for that sort of thing. For the last few weeks, he had taken account of the slowly deteriorating condition of Doctor Watson, but there had been no signs that he was in any danger of physically harming himself, unless one counted the bottle by bottle genocide of his brain cells down at that pub he likes so much.

His reflections on the condition of the former army doctor are interrupted with a bang.

Mycroft looks up as his assistant, Anthea, bursts into the study. Her face is flushed as if she had hurried to the study and she has a fax clasped in her right hand and her mobile clenched in her left. Normally the picture of apathy, her obviously perturbed demeanour causes him to sit up straighter in his chair. _This can't be good._

"What is it?" he asks solemnly as she crosses to stand in front of the desk.

"We've just received a fax from Major Barrymore," she says, thrusting the paper towards him. She stands silently and he can feel her eyes on his face as he reads over the message.

_Ah, very not good._

"It's him, isn't it?" she asks in a low voice. He leans back in the chair once more, weary, letting the paper fall across the desktop as he takes in his beautiful assistant's worried countenance. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, he has quite the headache.

"Most likely," he replies grimly. "Contact Colonel Carter and tell him that there's been a break-in at Baskerville."

xoxoxoxox

"Admitting you have a problem is the first step."

"Yes, Harry, I am familiar with the program, you know."

The siblings walk briskly down the dark street, dodging groups of people loitering on the sidewalk in front of the café that is next to the building where their Alcoholics Anonymous meeting had been. It was his third meeting of ten that were required of him by his therapist, along with weekly meetings with herself, in order to keep his medical license.

He'd gone every day since he got out of hospital and moved, momentarily, into his sister's flat. He hadn't been allowed to go back to Baker Street. Harry had some of his things brought over by her new girlfriend, Gina, probably because she figured he had booze stashed somewhere and didn't want him getting at it.

But drinking was the last thing on John's mind nowadays.

"I know you don't want to go, John, and you aren't required to say anything during them, but you could at least **try** not to look so damn disengaged the whole time!"

His sister's high heels are slowing her down, allowing him to place a little distance between the two of them. He is always really annoyed with Harry after their AA meetings. While her efforts to better herself in the past usually eased the strained relationship between them, going to the meetings with her now only surfaced the memories of thousands of fights and one particularly awful recollection of the night he literally found her in a gutter after she hadn't come home.

Also, even though the meetings were supposed to be about healing, they only made him feel shame and embarrassment about his behaviour over the last few weeks, especially regarding his overdose. _Really, a doctor that accidentally overdoses,_ he thinks bitterly, shaking his head, _Perhaps I do deserve to have my license taken away. Stupid and careless._

Her flat is only a few blocks away, an easy walk now that he no longer needed his cane. The day he'd been allowed to check-out, he had forgotten it in his hospital room and didn't even notice the change until he met with his therapist later that afternoon and she'd pointed it out that his limp had disappeared once again.

He wasn't surprised that he hadn't been aware of it; his thoughts were quite preoccupied. Ever since Molly's visit, all he can think about is Sherlock.

_Where is he? Is he somewhere in London? Why hasn't he come to see him? Is he in trouble? What is he doing? Surely he must have some sort of plan; the blighter always has something up his sleeve. Where in bloody hell is he?_

Before, when he'd believed Sherlock dead, he'd done everything in his power not to think about him. Now, every moment he can possibly spare is spent ruminating over the disappearance of Sherlock Holmes. It is as if someone replaced his usual heart sounds with his name: _Sher-lock, Sher-lock, Sher-lock._ After spending so long convinced that he would never see him again, all that matters now is finding him. If only John could figure out a place to start looking.

John, mired in his thoughts again as he rounds the last corner before his sister's block, doesn't see the bloke until it is too late. He had been leaning against the building, a great hulking mass with his hat pulled down over his eyes and a cigarette dangling between his lips. John turns the corner a bit too sharply and runs headlong into him, knocking his lighter out of his hand.

"I'm so sorry," John apologizes, stooping to retrieve the man's lighter. When he straightens and catches the man's gaze, a jolt of electricity runs through John. _I've seen this guy before…_ John thinks, apprehension and recognition knotting his stomach. _Where have I seen him before?_

"S'all right, mate," the man slurs out in a low rumble, as he takes the lighter back. His salt-and-pepper mustache twitches in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and shoves the lighter in the pocket of his jacket.

Just then, Harry turns the corner, slightly out of breath from struggling to keep up with John in her kitten heels. Whoever this man is, John doesn't want him anywhere near his sister. He affects as casual deportment as he is able and seizes Harry's hand, nodding at the gentleman first and then tugging her after him down the street the rest of the way to her apartment building, ignoring her confused protests.

As Harry digs in her bag for her keys, John stands at parade rest behind her, his entire body on guard with military alertness. When she finally gets the door open with a curse, he throws a swift look over his shoulder down the street at where the man had been leaning, but he's gone.

xoxoxoxox

A gentle breeze through the cool night air lifts the dark curls from his neck as he sifts through the faces of the people mulling about the metropolis. _Tourist, banker, teacher, mistress, another tourist. _They make their way through the city's heart, the sound of their footsteps on the yellow cobblestones becoming the city's pulse, barely noticing the clear blue eyes observing and cataloging their every move.

He sits back in the black metal chair, his long fingers toying idly with glass of pelinkovac that is just as full as it was when it was brought to him an hour ago. He hadn't bought it to drink it, though, merely as an excuse to sit there at the table outside the bistro. The annoyed waiter had evidently realized that the eccentric customer would not be ordering anything further that evening and had given up on attempting to persuade him to try the sarma.

Sherlock tugs his phone impatiently from his pocket to check the time. _She's late._

He goes through his inbox to re-read the latest of Mycroft's texts.

**Balgarska Armiya Stadium. Sector V. Friday.  
>-MH<strong>

Balgarska Armiya Stadium is where the local football club plays, and while Sherlock has never been a fan of sporting events or large gatherings of people, he will be putting in an appearance at this particular game. Actually, he intends not to be seen, but will absolutely be present. According to Mycroft, Antonin Zaimov is an avid fan of CSKA and will be attending the kick-off game of the football season in four days' time.

He senses her before he sees her, her violet perfume preceding her.

"So good to see you, darling," comes the familiar purr, her hand brushing along his back before she comes around the table to drop gracefully in the chair across from him. He palms his phone and slides it back into his pocket, assuming his natural poker face while he waits for her to settle in.

Her hair is pinned up elegantly, as it had been when he'd first met her. Her curves are hidden this time, though, in a black sheath dress. A smirk plays across her dark lips as she gently tugs her gloves from each finger before slipping them off and laying them softly across her lap.

"We finally get to have dinner. You certainly look good enough to eat," she coos, eyes twinkling in the half-light. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table and clasping her hands beneath her chin, allowing her cleavage to be seen to its best advantage.

"We both know that's not why I contacted you."

Her lips form a pout, but then she smiles with knowing exasperation, heaving a dramatic sigh as she settles back into her chair.

"Well, you can't blame a girl for trying."

"With you, Miss Adler, I wouldn't expect anything less."

xoxoxoxox

John still has the nightmare.

When his psychosomatic limp had disappeared, he'd hoped that the dream would fade away as well. While he is no longer haunted by it every time he closes his eyes, it still crops up frequently, causing him to bolt upright in bed, sweating and cursing, his heart hammering and hands shaking.

The same is true this night. His eyes fly open, his breath coming in short gasps. The silence of the pad presses in on his ears and his vision adjusts slowly to the darkness.

As he regulates his breathing to calm himself, he glances around Harry's living room, where the sofa has been transformed into his bed with the mere addition of a few sheets and a rather lumpy pillow. He swings his legs over the side of the sofa and pads his way into the kitchen to make some tea to calm his nerves.

While he fills the teapot with water, it suddenly comes to him.

He hadn't just seen that man once before. He'd seen him several times. He had been in the faces of the crowd outside the café after each AA meeting. He had been one of the many people he'd passed on his way to the cemetery to visit Sherlock. He had been seen outside of the surgery on his way to and from work. For several weeks he'd been seeing this man from the corner of his eye, but never really taking note of him, too embroiled in his grief.

He turns off the spout with a violent twist, letting the teakettle clatter into the sink, thinking with dour certainty, _Someone is watching me._


	3. Missing You

**Author's Notes**: I'm having quite a lot of fun writing this, but it would be rather nice to know what people are thinking about the story so far. I don't like the idea of begging for reviews, so instead I will kindly ask that you let me know what you think. It is so much easier to keep going when there is feedback to let me know if I'm doing ok or if I'm going around in circles.

Whether you review or not, thank you for reading! ^_^

* * *

><p><strong>Icarus Burning<strong>

**Chapter 3  
>Missing You<strong>

His blonde locks are matted to his forehead and he brushes them back with a rough hand, making a mental note that he should get a haircut. He'd let it get far too shaggy. At the moment it is weighted down by rain because he didn't have a travel sized umbrella. His sister's felt too much like a cane and he couldn't bring himself to use it.

When he opens the door to the lab, she is studiously examining slides, her long hair swept back in its usual ponytail and her mouth parted slightly. Completely engrossed in her activities, she fails to notice as he walks slowly over to stand across from her, clasping his hands behind his back. He clears his throat gently and she starts, poking her eye on the microscope and letting out a yelp of surprise.

"Doctor Watson!" she exclaims, rubbing her eye and blinking furiously as she comes around to greet him. For a moment she shilly-shallies between going to shake his hand and giving him a hug and it turns into an awkward combination of both. He pats her clumsily on the back, but then gets straight to the heart of the matter.

"I need to talk to you, Molly. About…" he drops his voice, "… about Sherlock."

The smile and colour drains quickly from her face, her large eyes darting around their surroundings before coming to rest on his. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her lab coat, her lips pressed in a resigned line, and quickly jerks her head in the direction of the door. He follows closely behind her as she makes her way out of the lab, down the hall, and through an emergency exit door on the right.

The pair of them stand close together in the doorway, the ruins of cigarettes littering the pavement around them where surreptitious smokers had concealed their dirty habit by hiding in the alleyway behind the hospital so they wouldn't be seen. It's a suitable place for them to talk because the continuous downpour of rain has rendered the alley devoid of people, the thunder rumbling overhead perfect cover for their clandestine conversation.

"I've already told you everything that I know," Molly begins, splaying her hands in front of her as if to show just how empty-handed she is.

"Surely he must have said something; indicated where he might be going, what he might be doing –"

He hears the desperation in his own voice, but since he** is** desperate he can't bring himself to care. She gives him a sad smile then and shakes her head.

"He trusted me enough to help him, but you know how he is. He didn't tell me anything more than he felt I needed to know. I wish I could help you, I really do… I'm sorry."

"You didn't bother to ask him any questions? You just did whatever he asked?"

There is a moment of silence before she raises her head to look at him. Her gaze on his is steady, the light behind them dim and rather hopeless.

"I would do anything he asked of me."

She says the words matter-of-factly, but John understands the weight behind them. There is nothing she could ever deny Sherlock Holmes. He's like a beautiful and powerful force of nature and his approval is like a drug. As much as John would like to deny it, he knows that there is nothing he wouldn't do for him, too.

The doctor runs his hand through his hair in agitation, watching the rain ricochet off the dumpster nearby. _There has to be something, __**something**__ to lead to Sherlock… some clue._ Molly reaches out to pat his shoulder sympathetically, but a shift in the wind redirects the deluge at them. She shivers, tugging her coat tighter around herself before setting her hand on the door handle.

When she turns her eyes to him one last time, a sort of mutual understanding passes wordlessly between them. They are the same; mere mortals chasing after an otherworldly being that is forever just out of reach.

xoxoxoxox

"_You must miss Doctor Watson a great deal."_

Her words echo unbidden in his memory. He should be focusing; it is no time to get distracted.

He stands ramrod straight in a crowd of eager spectators screaming and cheering for their home team, pressing in around him uncomfortably. He has affected a simple disguise consisting of a scarf consistent with the team's colouring and his dark tresses are tucked into a matching hat. No need to go out of his way, because no one would be looking for a presumed-dead English consulting detective amid the crowd of Bulgarian football fans. He lets out the occasional holler of anger and exultation in concurrence with those around him so as not to attract attention.

His target stands a few metres away, his great bald head shining in the stadium lights. The night air is unseasonably cold, but Zaimov seems immune to it; wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off his massive arms that are covered with sprawling tattoos. As luck would have it, Zaimov stands near to the aisle, an ideal position for what must come next.

"_I just mean that you wouldn't have come to me for help, normally. This is something that you would have wanted to do by yourself to ensure it was done properly. So, you must have some reason to need this over as quickly as possible."_

He closes his eyes and holds very still. The ability to clear his mind is a point of pride, which makes it ever more frustrating that he can't stop himself from thinking about the woman's parting words from a few days prior.

The manner in which she had said them conveyed a depth of meaning that he couldn't grasp, as they seemed, on the surface, utterly inane to him. Of course he misses John. He is a very good friend whose companionship has proven very valuable. _Why should it be surprising to her? _he thinks, annoyed.

A vision of John swims to the surface of his mind. It isn't a particular memory, more of an amalgam of everything that makes him what he is: blogger, soldier, doctor, friend. Giggles and grins and furrowed brows. Bravery and determination. Ruddy awful jumpers.

He misses John so suddenly and so much that it almost literally hurts. He wishes he were back at 221 Baker Street, curled on the sofa with his violin tucked under his chin, listening to the skittering of John's fingers across the keys of his laptop.

His eyes fly open, riveting on the back of Zaimov's head; a newfound determination settling in his chest and propelling him into action.

He squeezes out of his row, mumbling his apologies in Bulgarian. He mimics a drunken gait as he makes his way down the aisle stairs, timing it as close as he can to when he anticipates the next eruption of cheers. When the people around them fly into screams of delight, he stumbles into Zaimov, an imperceptive hand delving in and out of his pocket.

Zaimov's head swivels around to see who knocked into him, but Sherlock is already at the bottom of the stairs, shrinking away from the crowd, clutching the pilfered keys so tightly they almost draw blood.

_She was right_, he thinks, _I'll do whatever it takes to get home as soon as I possibly can._

xoxoxoxox

He pauses outside the door of 221 Baker Street, a box of cupcakes from the bakery down the road balanced on his palms.

It hadn't been too difficult to make Harry amenable to the idea of him moving out of her flat, as they've never been able to stay in close quarters for long without ending up at each other's throats. Age and maturity seems to only worsen it, life experience having served only to sharpen their tongues and ability to strike at each other's weak points. It was these skills that he had used to finally get his sister to throw him out.

It had been imperative that he get back to Baker Street. After Molly proved to be a dead-end, the flat is the only other place he can think to look for a new lead. There must be something in the flat that he hadn't noticed because he'd been too drunk or because he simply hadn't been looking before. But more than that, knowing that his presence might have been putting Harry in danger had filled him with a slow-burning rage, but also resolution, to get as far from her as possible.

So, he'd lashed out at her.

If he was to keep her out of whatever insanity was sure to come raining down upon him sooner rather than later, he'd needed her to not just kick him out, but also to not come checking up on him. Thus, he'd started a fight the likes of which they weren't likely to recover from for at least half a year. He had attacked her insecurities with surgical precision, ignoring the guilt and regret.

_It's for the best_, he thinks, wincing slightly at the memory of her tear-streaked face yelling for him to get out. _For the best…_

The door to the building opens suddenly, startling him out of his self-pity. Mrs Hudson wavers for just a moment, clearly surprised to see him, before breaking into tears and throwing her arms around him with a shout of joy. He nearly drops the box of cupcakes, but smiles reflexively, hugging the small woman to him and letting the warmth of her welcome drive away his forlorn thoughts of Harry.

"I'm so glad you're alright! It's good to see you. Come in, come in! I'll make a cuppa for you," she says, taking his free hand and dragging him across the threshold and down the hall toward her flat.

He sits in a chair at her small table, staring at the purple flower wallpaper as she bustles about fixing the tea, his blue box of cupcakes placed before him. She prattles on about developments in her family and the neighbour's lost dog before finally setting a piping hot cup in front of him. He smiles at her and accepts the tea before rather sheepishly opening the lid to the box and presenting her with the treats.

"I wanted to get you something as an apology," he explains, pushing the desserts across the table slightly towards her.

"Apology, dear?" she asks, raising her cup and blowing gently before sipping the steaming brew.

"Yes, I mean… It must have given you such a fright – finding me the way you did. And I'm very sorry."

Her eyebrows draw together in confusion and she sets her cup back on its matching plate.

"Well, it was all quite shocking, but I didn't find you. The ambulance simply showed up and I was quite startled to hear them thundering away up the stairs and busting down your door. I ran out in my nightie just as they were taking you away. Had you not called for them?"

John's teacup only makes it halfway to his lips, his hand suspended in air as he takes in her words. He goes back to that day in the hospital, recalling distinctly that Harry had said his landlady had found him. _But she didn't find me_, his mind buzzes, _So who called for the ambulance?_

When the answer comes to him, it is so painfully obvious that he resist the urge to smack his forehead in aggravation.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Hudson, but there are some things I must attend to up in the ol' flat, so if you'll excuse me."

He ignores her protests, pushes abruptly away from the table and marches out of her door and up the stairs. He runs a hand briefly over the door frame where it is splintered from having been bashed in, but then moves into the living room.

It is the first time that he has really **looked** at the place since Sherlock had "died." His sharp gaze sweeps over every surface. _Dust line, dust line… look for a break in the dust line._ He moves swiftly around the room, searching for any signs of surveillance.

It isn't long before he finds the tiny camera.

He lifts it gingerly from where it had been concealed behind the skull, looking it over. He holds it out in front of his face, stating in his coldest voice,

"Hello, Mycroft. Bring around the car, won't you? I have some things I'd like to speak with you about."

xoxoxoxox

It is very obvious he'd had quite a bit to drink at the game, because he doesn't even bother looking for his keys until he is already seated in his car. He also hadn't noticed that it had been unlocked, which was his first grave mistake.

He lets out a disgusting belch, filling the small space with the smell of alcohol, and pats his pockets, frowning when they come up empty. He glances at the floorboards, perhaps thinking that he dropped them when he had clamoured inside. He leans his bare head back against the headrest in frustration, which is his second mistake.

Sherlock, from his position in the darkness behind the driver's seat, speedily wraps the belt around the rather thick neck and pulls it taught, his muscles straining with the effort as the large assassin immediately struggles, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the leather cutting off his air supply.

"What is he planning?" Sherlock hisses into Zaimov's ear in bastardized Bulgarian, pulling the belt even tighter. "Tell me what you know."

He eases up ever so slightly, enough that he is allowed enough oxygen to tell Sherlock to go fuck himself. Not a good idea.

Sherlock wrenches it tighter, noting with grim satisfaction as the energy slowly saps from his victim, his struggles ebbing as he slips into unconsciousness. Sherlock doesn't relinquish his vice grip on the belt, letting a few minutes pass to ensure death.

He sits with his forehead resting against the headrest, his heart pounding and the only sounds his harsh breathing and the distant chatter of people as they make their way back towards their cars. No one had noticed the struggle in the car, just as Sherlock had known they wouldn't. They were too preoccupied with their home team victory and the eager search for their own vehicles in order to escape the night's chill.

Finally, he lets his hands drop, the belt held loosely and his arms aching in protest. He leans forward and observes the slumped body, reaching out a gloved hand to ensure there is no pulse. When he goes to draw back his hand, he accidentally brushes back the collar of the assassin's shirt, revealing the top of a tattoo that catches Sherlock's eye.

He hooks a finger through the material and wrenches it down far enough to reveal the small circle. No, not a circle… a snake, curled around and eating its own tail.

_Ouroboros._

xoxoxoxox

He brushes his fingers over his black and white moustache absentmindedly, leaning against a building in central London. His eyes scan the hustle and bustle of multitudes of people going about their everyday lives, completely oblivious.

_They have no fucking clue what's coming_, he thinks with relish, smiling slightly. _They don't even realize how tenuous it all is. They will soon._

A ringing in his pocket snaps him out of his reverie. He glances at the caller before raising it to his ear, tugging his hat lower over his face with his free hand out of habit.

"Sir?"

The voice of the man on the other end of the line is deep but younger than his own and tinged with the mild coarseness that comes from years of smoking.

"What's the report on Watson," the voice does not ask; it commands. Even though they are speaking over the phone, he stands straight and stiff, his free arm frozen to his side and his gaze fixed firmly to the front.

"Sir, there does not appear to have been any contact made between Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes. There is every indication that Watson believes Sherlock to be deceased."

There is a pause on the line before the other voice speaks once again.

"Is that all?"

A feeling of dread settles in the pit of his stomach. He had known he would have to speak about the incident from a few nights ago, but he was worried that he would be pulled from the surveillance detail. However, the mission is what is most important, so he clears he throat before answering.

"No, sir. I believe I have been made, sir. The mark spotted me when I stopped to light a cigarette. I have been keeping a careful distance since to ensure that I am not further compromised. However, there is a chance that he – he might realize now that he is being followed."

"I see."

A young girl passing by, clinging to her mother's hand and idly licking a lolly, casts a curious glance at the man standing on the sidewalk with such an awkward posture. He can hear the blood rushing in his head as he waits for something more to be said, knowing that it is best he say nothing more at the moment.

"In that case, Dalton, I'm afraid I won't be needing you anymore."

His mouth opens to stammer out a reply, but the laser sight on his forehead successfully guides the bullet home before he can blink an eye.


	4. Searching For Someone Like You

**Icarus Burning**

**Chapter 4  
>Searching For Someone Like You<br>**

Quite a crowd has gathered around the police tape that is stretched like taffy around the crime scene in order keep the rubberneckers a suitable distance from the body. The police cars, lights flashing, only serve to draw the attention of even more people, peering over the Yarders standing guard at the perimeter who are having enough difficulty keeping an eye on the journalists who had started turning up in droves not long after Lestrade had arrived on the scene.

It is an unusual occurrence and makes for an interesting piece for the evening news; an assassination in broad daylight in Trafalgar Square.

Lestrade studiously ignores the flashes from the disposable cameras of tourists who are at that moment, no doubt, thinking the incident was a happy twist and would make an interesting story once they returned to wherever they had come from. _Welcome to London_, Lestrade thinks sarcastically, standing with his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers as he surveys the macabre scene before him.

It appears to be a single gunshot wound to the forehead, the spray of blood smeared down the white siding of the old building indicating where the body had impacted the wall and slid down. Lestrade's eyes ghost over the ghastly red trail and come to rest on the corpse. _Roughly 50 years old, given the lines on his face and hands, plus his greying black hair and moustache,_ thinks the detective, sliding into a crouch to better inspect the man's clothing.

Around him his team is hard at work. Anderson and the other scientists taking and sealing away samples in evidence bags barely draw his notice. Lestrade is lost in his thoughts.

_Murder, murder, and more murder_. Lestrade sighs with a heaviness and weariness disproportionate to his age. Recently, every new case brought him one step closer to the precarious edge of hopelessness. It was a bitterness that had been instilled in him and growing greater ever since he'd gotten the phone call informing him that Sherlock Holmes had taken his own life. He's come to dread the sound of his own ringtone, knowing it would bring only more bad news.

"Phineas Dalton," comes a voice from behind him as he straightens up, running a hand through his silver hair. He turns to observe Sally Donovan as she flips through her notepad, the end of her pen dangling from between her teeth. He says nothing, just presses his mouth into a firm line and lets her continue uninterrupted.

"He was a bootneck: lieutenant in the Royal Marines. He was dishonourably discharged for drug abuse back in 1988."

Lestrade nods idly, eyeing the former soldier's body as he takes in the information. Sally is telling him that the man had no surviving relatives just as Anderson comes to his side and begins to make his report.

"Well, we'll have to wait for the ballistics to come back, but it looks like the bullet came from a military grade sniper rifle, possibly an AI 92, given the range and size of the wound."

Anderson launches into a litany of details about the results of a sweep of the area, but Lestrade is only half paying attention now. He closes his eyes against a sudden breeze so cold it feels as if it cuts straight through him. When he opens his eyes, Anderson is looking at him with an inky eyebrow raised.

At that moment he is unable to stop the powerful wish that Sherlock Holmes was there.

xoxoxoxox

Mycroft Holmes, arguably one of the most powerful men in Great Britain, is finding himself slightly intimidated by the small man across from his desk.

It is not a feeling that he is familiar or comfortable with.

When his men had dropped the former army doctor off at the Holmes manor, he had stormed into Mycroft's study, throwing open the door with a dramatic shove. His eyes were hard and determined, a quiet energy emanating from him like the aura of a man with nothing to lose. He had marched directly up to Mycroft's desk and slammed his hands down on the surface.

Now, as his eyes bore down on him, Mycroft marvelled that a person who so often faded into the background in the shadow of his flashier best friend could seem suddenly so imposing. He has no doubts as to why John had contacted him. It is obvious from merely looking at his eyes that he knows Sherlock faked his death.

John's hair is longer than normal and a little wild, stubble along his jaw showing he hasn't shaved in a few days. His pupils are contracted but unwavering, even if his breathing is a little haggard. He looks better than he did when he was in hospital, but Mycroft can tell by the dark circles that have taken up a seemingly permanent residence under his eyes that he still hasn't been sleeping much. When he finally speaks, there is a coarseness to his voice that Mycroft hasn't heard there before.

"Sherlock is still alive, isn't he?"

Mycroft cocks his head to one side and leans back in his green armchair, his fingers forming a steeple that rests just at the end of his chin as he gives his next words some consideration. The rest of the conversation flashes through his brain like a vision, each answer bringing about a different scenario. There is no point in lying anymore, but nor should he give the entire truth… just enough to put the doctor at ease and, hopefully, out of the way.

"Yes," he says after a pregnant pause.

John's breath rushes out of him like a deflating balloon and he sinks into one of the chairs across the desk. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, pressing his palms hard against his forehead and inhaling with a shudder.

"God, I didn't really let myself truly believe it until you said it. I mean, I knew… but it didn't feel real."

Mycroft says nothing, just sits in the same position with one leg crossed over the other as he waits for the inevitable questions to begin. John looks up, pressing the fingers of his left hand across his mouth, the hard look gone from his eyes now that he realized he wouldn't have to wrench the truth out of the elder Holmes.

"Where is he?" he asks.

The question actually surprises Mycroft. He had anticipated John demanding to know the reasons why Sherlock had staged his own suicide and forced his best friend to watch, eventually making his way towards Sherlock's current location. _Interesting_, thinks Mycroft, logging it away to be analysed later.

"I imagine he's somewhere on a train around now," he answers nonchalantly, reaching forward to grab the decanter that had been sitting on a coaster in front of him and swirling the amber fluid before taking a sip.

"A train? What in bloody hell is he doing on a train?"

"Just passing through."

"Just what in God's name is he doing, anyway?" John asks, his voice taking on an edge, clearly moved on from his overwhelming relief that Sherlock is alive now and able to think more practically. And angrily. Mycroft decides to circumvent the majority of John's questions at once.

"That day at St. Bart's, Moriarty had told Sherlock that if he did not kill himself, assassins were prepared to kill Mrs Hudson, DI Lestrade, and yourself." He pauses momentarily, taking in the doctor's shock that tightens his mouth and furrows his brows. "He had anticipated Moriarty's ploy, planned accordingly, and is now bent on disposing of those threats in order to effectively come back from the dead and return home."

There are a few beats where John is speechless, letting the words sink in slowly. And then the chair stutters back across the plush rug when the doctor suddenly gets to his feet again.

"Wait –wait – wait… Sherlock is out there hunting down **assassins**? As in, he's going to kill – try to kill – people who kill for a living?"

"He's doing a bit more than trying. He's already taken out two of them."

The doctor's mouth falls agape with surprise, not a very flattering look, in Mycroft's opinion. He seems to collect himself as he says, more to himself than to Mycroft,

"He's killed two of them already."

Doctor Watson goes quiet again and Mycroft can practically see the wheels turning in his brain as his eyes dart back and forth across the patterns on the rug beneath his feet. He answers the question before John even has a chance to ask.

"No."

John looks up, blinking dumbly. "No? No what?"

"No, I won't tell you where he's going so you can go charging in like a white knight to save him. He does not need your help; you would only get in the way."

Mycroft says this with a dismissive hand wave, causing John's hands to clench into fists held at his sides and flames of anger and resolution flicker in his eyes. He sets his shoulders and seems, again, to be a man much larger than he actually is.

"Don't look at me like that, you po-faced bastard. He needs me," he says with certainty, "He'd be better off with me there and you know it."

"Protecting you is the reason he 'died' in the first place! I am sorry, but my priority is keeping Sherlock alive. There was no way for me to stop him from going on this crazy mission, the best thing I can do is ensure that it has the highest chances of success. And that means keeping you from getting in the way and distracting him at this particularly critical juncture."

Mycroft stands as well, uncomfortable sitting while John towers over him. He clasps his hands behind his back and moves to look out the window before continuing.

"If he knew that you were coming, if he even suspected you knew the truth… it would throw him off of his game. You may be able to provide some assistance, but I frankly can't take that chance. As hard as it may be, the only way to proceed is to simply let him crack on with it."

As his speech winds down and he turns back to face the doctor, he expects to see acquiescence in those deep blue eyes. Instead, he is met with the same determined eyes that had stormed into his study. John's mouth quirks in a half-smile, but Mycroft can sense the calm fury behind it.

"Then I won't let him know that I'm coming. If you're not going to help me, then so be it… I'll just go and find him myself!"

He spins on his heel then, his back to Mycroft, walking steadily to the door, but his hand pauses on the handle. He glances piercingly over his shoulder.

"And you can call off the bloke who has been following me around, he's not very subtle. "

Before Mycroft is able to properly process what John has said, the ex-Army doctor has disappeared out the doorway.

_Someone has been following him around_, Mycroft muses as he returns to his chair, resting a hand on its back instead of seating himself in it. He had been monitoring Doctor Watson through the CCTV and cameras in the flat and surgery, but he hadn't had the personnel to spare to have the doctor followed, not after the break in at Baskerville.

_This is not good_, he thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose as his headache returns once again.

xoxoxoxox

It has been a very long ride so far.

The train compartment is decked in various shades of brown, even the curtains that one can draw across the massive windows. It is against one of these windows that Sherlock is slumped, eyes directed outside but not actually taking in the French countryside as it blurs past.

Around him his fellow passengers converse in hushed tones or doze against each other's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes slide, once again, over a man sitting across the aisle from him. Every few minutes, his gaze naturally travels in that direction before snapping back.

The first few times it happened, he hadn't known why. He would escape into his mind palace and, upon returning to reality, find himself staring at the man. Something about him reminded him of John. As for the man himself, he's older with greying hair and a scraggly beard: not very John-like at all. But the fourth time, he realised; John has that same jumper. He'd worn it on a few occasions during cases and around the flat.

Sherlock closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the cool glass, inhaling through his nose and exhaling out his mouth to try and clear his head.

Sherlock is an expert at predicting human behaviour. While he had been accused many times, not inaccurately, of being emotionless, he did understand the mechanics of emotions and the roles they play in human actions. After all, one could hardly be expected to solve a crime without taking in the motives that could drive a person to commit it.

Despite his ability to predict reactions, John is, and always has been, a bit of an enigma to Sherlock. Every time he feels he has him figured out, he does something to surprise him. Even so, he feels a reasonable amount of certainty about what John is likely to be going through at the moment.

John would be throwing himself into his work, eating with Mrs Hudson on occasion, heading out to pubs with Lestrade, and perhaps taking up again with Sarah. That last thought sends a pang through Sherlock's chest, and he supresses it quickly. Even though he can imagine, and has frequently imagined, John going through his daily routine, he also knows that John would be missing him.

He'd always known John would miss him.

He had jumped off the roof of that building knowing what it would do to the former army doctor. But he had done it anyway. He had needed John to bear witness to his suicide in order for it to seem as real as possible. It was necessary for their survival and he would never have wanted to cause John that pain. Or, that was what Sherlock told himself.

When Sherlock dared to turn his scrutinising gaze inward, he knew that there was more to it than that. A part of him was glad. He knew that watching him jump from St. Bart's roof would have essentially burned his presence into John and that, no matter what happened, John would never be able to forget him. Even as John goes throughout his days now without him, a part of Sherlock is seared into John and he finds it oddly comforting to know that he won't be forgotten. He also knows this is selfish, but he's never been anything if not selfish.

He'd known John would miss him…

… but he hadn't realised how much he would miss John.

xoxoxoxox

_Perhaps this was not a good idea_.

Upon returning from his visit to Holmes Manor, John had set to work tearing apart the flat for clues. Now that he knew what Sherlock was up to, he had hoped he would be better at spotting clues. So, he had spent the entire evening and into the next day looking through books, digging through boxes, even going so far as to check in the pantries. Nothing.

He'd experienced a moment's hesitation as he stood at the threshold of Sherlock's room. Even after he'd spoken with Molly, he hadn't been able to bring himself to go inside. After assuring himself that Sherlock was alive and there was every reason to continue his search there, he'd finally crossed into the room and been startled by how little information was yielded in the Spartan room. For someone who disregarded the disarray of the rest of the flat, Sherlock was surprisingly meticulous about his own quarters.

Around noon, John had collapsed onto the sofa, defeated. And that was when he'd had an idea.

It was a bit of a long-shot, but if Sherlock had needed assistance in pulling off his suicide and subsequent disappearance, and assuming that he had been too loath to ask Mycroft for help, there was only one other place he might have turned… his homeless network. John had shot out the door and into a cab before he had thought much about it, too sleep deprived and eager to pursue the new lead.

And that was how he now found himself surrounded.

Turns out, unless one already has a rapport with the homeless network, they do not take kindly to intruders with questions. John had taken the cab to the tunnels he had visited with Sherlock when hunting down the Golem, only to be surprised that, even after informing them that he was Sherlock's friend, they were not very forthcoming.

It had been a stupid mistake. He had placed a hand on a man's shoulder when he had ignored him and turned to go. It hadn't been intended as a threat, but that was the way it was perceived. So, now John is backed against a hard cement wall with three angry homeless men bearing down on him.

Just as one of them raises their fist to land the first blow and John flings his arms up over his face, a horn blares through the tunnel and a long black car barrells toward them. The three men scatter and John slumps, eyes wide and breathing heavily. As he watches, the back door of the car swings open and he climbs in without hesitation.

After closing the door and turning to give his thanks to Anthea for her expert timing, he is surprised to find Mycroft himself sitting beside him. His hands are clasped on the handle of a long umbrella, his face sombre.

"Mycroft," John nods his appreciation.

"It was stupid for you to come here," Mycroft states witheringly. John feels his anger flare up, something he's beginning to get used to when in the elder Holmes's presence.

"I told you that I would find him. I'll do whatever it takes," John says coolly, fixing his gaze on Mycroft's and steeling himself for another fight. But Mycroft only sighs.

"Clearly," he says slowly, "I've realised that I'm not going to be able to keep you from pursuing Sherlock, and that is only going to create more problems… Which is why I've decided to help you."

"I'm _not_ going to cause problems for Sher- Wait. What?"

"I said," Mycroft sounds impatient now, "that I'm going to help get you to Sherlock. But first, it's time to tell you everything."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Sorry this chapter took a bit longer for me to crank out than the others, I had several tests this last week. Anyway, thank you for reading! If you have a moment, I would appreciate a review to let me know what you think so far!


	5. Barrel of a Gun

**Icarus Burning**

**Chapter 5  
>Barrel of a Gun<strong>

John is surprised when the car glides to a stop in front of his flat on Baker Street instead of whisking the pair of them back to some hole-and-corner lair in Mycroft's usual style. Despite his proclamation that it was time to disclose everything to John, Mycroft had spent the ride in contemplative silence, saying only that the debriefing would take place once they arrived at their destination.

Upon making their way up to the flat, Mycroft unlocks the door and holds it open to let John pass by. John is unsurprised that Mycroft has a key to the place, but is galled that he should be hustled inside his own residence by the older man, as if it were _his_ home and John the visitor. He lets it slide, however, because there are much more pressing matters at stake. They go up the stairs and Mycroft closes the door behind him as John leans against the arm of the sofa, folding his arms and waiting with as much patience as he can muster.

"What is it, exactly, that you need to tell me? And why did you bring me here?" John asks, expertly supressing the irritation in his voice. Ever since their confrontation about the part Mycroft played in feeding information to Moriarty, everything about Mycroft has the tendency to grate on the doctor. But, as he needs his help finding Sherlock and has finally been assured it, he decides civility is the best recourse for the moment.

Mycroft clasps a manila folder tightly in one hand and pokes his long umbrella at a mountain of books that are piled haphazardly on the floor. He raises one dark eyebrow as he takes in the shambles that John's eager search had reduced the flat to.

"With Sherlock traversing Europe, if you are to catch up with him, then time is of the essence," Mycroft explains as he makes space to sit down on Sherlock's chair. _Don't sit there_, John thinks sharply as he winces inwardly and then mentally scolds himself for being silly.

"Would it be a bother to ask for a cup of tea?" Mycroft asks, crossing one leg over the other and setting the folder across his lap.

John scowls and sinks onto the sofa, leaning forward and clasping his hands firmly.

"Yes, it would be. I'd prefer we skip to the part where you tell me what the bloody hell is going on."

Mycroft stares at the handle of his umbrella as he twirls it idly, his haughty and detached expression making John clench his jaw, resisting the urge to smack the umbrella out of his hands. When his eyes snap suddenly onto John's, the detachment is gone and replaced with an intense focus that reminds John so strongly of Sherlock that he wonders briefly if it's a family trait.

"Fine," he sits forward, his hand stilled, and John recognizes the look in his eyes. It's the same look Sherlock wears when faced with a particularly difficult puzzle.

"Are you at all familiar with Colonel Sebastian Moran?"

John's eyebrows twitch together in confusion and he casts his mind back through his time in the military before shaking his head. Mycroft cocks his head to the side and considers John for a moment, drumming his fingers across the folder.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't be," he says meditatively as he settles back into the chair, "He was a traitor. While stationed in Kandahar, he and a partner sold secret military information that he was privy to. He was a top sniper in the Royal Marines and, when his partner threatened to burn him, he attempted to assassinate him. When this failed, his partner followed through and informed on him in exchange for clemency. Moran was taken into custody, found guilty of treason, and transported to a maximum security facility. He remained there until he was broken out… by James Moriarty."

John, who had remained silent and still during the briefing, jerks visibly at the mention of Moriarty, his heart beating a little faster against his chest. His mind automatically goes back to that night at the pool; his arms around Moriarty's neck and a laser sight trained on Sherlock. Mycroft notes the reaction and pauses momentarily before continuing.

"I'm sure you've wondered what information I could have needed so desperately from Moriarty that I would be willing to trade details about my dear younger brother."

John says nothing, but his eyes narrow slightly.

"Moriarty hated to get his hands dirty, and that is where Moran came in. Moriarty broke out Moran to take advantage of his thirst for revenge against the government. After we had Moriarty in custody, we began attempting to locate Moran, whose abilities with a rifle and knowledge of government facilities and secrets pose a threat to every British citizen. That was the information I needed."

Mycroft gently lifts the folder from his lap and extends it to John, who flicks it open and riffles quickly through the stack of papers inside. They are profiles on what appear to be several different assassins, three of which are marked in red as deceased. When he gets to the last one, the familiar face causes his blood to run cold.

It's him; the man he had run into outside of Harry's place.

John looks up sharply at Mycroft, his mouth slack with surprise. Mycroft is staring at him and nodding grimly.

"Yes, that is the man who has been following you. I discovered him on the surveillance tapes upon review. He was found dead yesterday; taken out in Trafalgar Square."

"I don't understand…" John says slowly, shaking his head, "I thought he was one of your men keeping an eye on me."

"We have reason to believe that Moran has access to Moriarty's resources and is making use of them to fund his own crime ring of assassins. We refer to that ring as Ouroborous because of a tattoo that they all share," Mycroft says, pointing an elegant finger at a small circular tattoo on the man's arm in the photo.

John lifts the picture closer and is able to make out a snake eating its own tail. He sets the photo back in the folder and presses his face into his hands, his mind reeling as he tries to take in and make sense of all of this information. _What does this all mean? What has Sherlock gotten himself into? Where is he? Sherlock..._

"Moran is having you watched. You know what this means, don't you?"

John slowly lowers his hands away from his face and raises his eyes to Mycroft, who has gotten to his feet and is standing directly across from him. When their gazes lock, he suddenly finds he knows exactly what it means.

"They know that Sherlock isn't dead. They think they can find him through me."

Mycroft nods and pulls his gloves out of his pocket to begin sliding them on, tucking his umbrella into the crook of his arm.

"Which is all the more reason why I have decided to help get you to Sherlock. If you should stay here, it would only be a matter of time before they attempt to use you to lure Sherlock out into the open."

John gets gingerly to his feet, the full force of his sleep deprivation hitting him suddenly and making him feel more weary than he can remember being in a very long while. He knows he should be startled or concerned that he was being monitored by ruthless killers, but all he feels is worry that those same men could be closing in on Sherlock as they speak. Mycroft pulls back the sleeve of his coat to look at his watch.

"Speaking of which, you need to get packing if you're to make your train to Paris. Be sure to pack light," Mycroft says lightly.

"I'm going to Paris?" John asks dazedly and Mycroft shakes his head.

"Barcelona. You'll be switching trains in Paris and taking an overnight train into Spain," he says as he places a hand at John's back, turning him in the direction of the stairs that lead up to his room. John walks towards the door, feeling as if the wheels in his brain are not turning quite as quickly as they should. Being around the Holmes men tends to have that effect on him.

"Why a train? Why don't I just fly there? You said time is of the essence."

"It is, but you need time to process everything you've learned today and get yourself in order before you go tearing through a foreign city in search of my brother. "

"Does Sherlock know that Moran is on to him?" John asks, pausing on the stairs and turning to look down at Mycroft, a unique vantage point for the smaller man.

"No. I'd had my suspicions, but they were only confirmed after you revealed that you were being watched. If I were to inform him that you were under surveillance, he would wind up acting rashly. No, it is best that you let him know if and when you find him."

"And you're still not telling him I'm coming," John states blankly. Mycroft's gaze on his does not falter.

"If you should be intercepted en route to Sherlock, he mustn't know that anything has happened to you until he has returned. I don't mean to seem unfeeling, but my priority is my younger sibling's safety. Now, go pack a bag."

xoxoxoxox

Sherlock is dreaming, which is unusual.

It has been a very long time since he has had a dream. This is due in large part to the fact that Sherlock rarely sleeps at all, and when he does, it is normally not for particularly long. Also, those who are not exactly neurotypical are said to dream less than the more mundane gentry.

The few times Sherlock had dreamt when he was a child, they had always been nightmares. Once, his brother had taught him a way of controlling his nightmares by first recognising that one is dreaming and then manipulating the situation with one's mind into one that is less threatening.

The ludicrousness of the situation that Sherlock finds himself in is evidence enough that he is dreaming. However, even though he has realised that he is dreaming, Sherlock is unable to assert his control over the situation.

That is because he is staring down the barrel of John's Browning, which is aimed directly between Sherlock's eyebrows.

Sherlock's heart pounds against his ribs, but he maintains an outward calm, even in his imagination. His hands are clasped behind him and his face is stony as he attempts to ignore the gun trained on his face. He focuses instead on John's familiar dark blue eyes. The former army doctor's features are contorted into an expression of calm rage; steely and furious.

The two of them are standing in the graveyard where Sherlock was "buried," or rather, that's what the place is supposed to be. In reality, there are considerably less mausoleums and the grass would not yet be dried and dying as if in the full grip of winter, the trees twisting brown skeletons blowing in the wind.

"You lied to me, Sherlock."

His voice is even, inflectionless, and sounding from far away, as if they stand on opposite ends of a long tunnel instead of metres apart. _This is a dream, just a dream, _Sherlock tells himself. He knows that and tries to work it to his advantage, willing the anger out of John's eyes. It doesn't work.

"You lied to me and you left," John says, cocking the hammer with his thumb in a well-practiced motion.

"I did it for _you_, John," Sherlock says, his smooth baritone failing to conceal his distress. _Get your emotions under control_, he scolds.

"I hate you, you sodding bastard."

"You don't hate me. This is just a dream. You're merely a projection of my subconscious – a sham," Sherlock intimates, once again attempting futilely to seize control. John's mouth twitches into a cruel smile that seems out of place on the amicable doctor's face.

"Even if I am, you know what I'm saying is the truth. I hate you and I will never forgive you for what you've put me through," faux-John says, still not sounding quite right. The lack of emotion in his voice does not match the anger Sherlock sees in every line of tension throughout the former soldier's frame.

The sound of the gun firing is what finally wakes him.

He does not jerk awake in a panic, even though his heart is still beating like a drum in his chest. A small beading of sweat mats his dark curls against the back of his neck when he sits upright in the bed, glancing around the small room.

Like most of the places he has stayed during his travels, the room is mostly bare. The walls are stripped with nothing but two very long empty shelves. The medium sized mattress beneath him is not particularly comfortable and the sheets are rather stiff. There is an "entertainment centre" against one wall that actually functions as a weapons cache. Atop that is splayed maps and guidebooks to the city that Sherlock had purchased upon his arrival in order to familiarise himself with his surroundings as quickly as possible.

When one enters the "safe house," there is a shower stall, toilet, and sink in a room immediately to the right, although Sherlock had not spent much time in there. He went instead immediately to the mini-fridge and microwave in one corner of the room to look for provisions, suddenly famished from his trek there.

During his trip from Sofia to Barcelona, that took well over an entire day, he hadn't eaten or slept at all. He had spent as much of the trip as he could in his mind palace, planning for as many variables his brain was capable of devising so that he would be completely prepared for any inevitability during this next phase. Upon disembarking from the train, he wandered through the bohemian city, fed up with sitting and relishing the ability to stretch his remarkably long legs.

He had sent off a text to the Woman so that she would know that he had arrived and was awaiting details about their next rendezvous point when he passed out on the bed that was pressed against the centre of one wall. Now, he reaches down to grab his phone, squinting against the glow to see if he has any messages. None yet.

He lies back on the bed; his phone still clasped in his hand as he throws an arm across his eyes and breathes in deeply. The words echo in his mind; _"I hate you and I will never forgive you for what you've put me through." _He lets out an enormous exhale and whispers into the silence of the room,

"Yes… I know."

xoxoxoxox

The screams reverberate all the way down the hall.

The peal of her shrieks makes the hairs on the back of his forearms stand at attention. He knows that, if he does not make quick work of his task, it could very well be him making those sounds soon. Knowing this does not actually help, if anything it clouds his mind and increases the slight tremor in his hands.

He hears keys sliding back the lock on the doors to the dingy laboratory and the jangling rattles his nerves. The doors are thrown open and the hulking mass of the man that strides through them takes up nearly the entire doorway. His dark brown hair just reaches his shoulder in scraggly tendrils that are in desperate want of washing, his beard and moustache just as dishevelled. His combat boots make sickening thuds as he crosses over to stand across from the table that he is chained to.

"How comes things, Mr Hughes?" he asks in a low rumble, crossing his arms over his chest, his muscles rippling like thick, coiled ropes. Lester Hughes attempts to return his gaze to the small machine in his hands, but his eyes are affixed to the ridiculously large gun strapped to the back of the man in front of him.

"W-well, I am going to need some more time. There is a failsafe that will corrupt the data if I try to take it apart. And without knowing the password –"

"You have had nearly twenty-four hours. Are you saying that you can't do it?"

Lester balks and beats a hasty retreat, jiggling his leg up and down, causing his shackle to clatter against the steel leg of the table.

"No, no, no! I'm just saying that I haven't had enough time to make any significant headway. I – I should be able to…" his voice fades, along with his confidence. The brown eyes peering at him from under heavy eyebrows pierce through him. Just as his captor opens his mouth, no doubt to issue another threat, the doors burst open once again.

"Colonel Moran, sir! We've had a breakthrough," says the young man that strides through the door. When the massive man turns to look at him, his spine snaps straight and his arms freeze at his sides. His eyes are overly bright and his face flushes with the thrill of success.

"Report," commands the man in his deep, gravelly voice.

"Sir, before she passed out, the Woman gave up her passcode. Jenkins is taking her back to her cell now."

The colonel nods at the young man and turns his intense stare back on Lester. Lester can feel adrenaline coursing through him now. _If they can access the phone, will they still need me?_ He swallows hard and hopes the answer is yes.

"Well, it seems you've been handed a reprieve, but stick around, Mr Hughes, in case we run into any more snags."

He reaches out and plucks the phone out of Lester's grasp with calloused fingers, a cold smile twisting his lips.

"Now… let's see what exactly is on this phone."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong> I would like to send my heartfelt gratitude to those of you who have taken the time to review my story! It makes it so much more fun to write when I know there is an audience and can get some kind of feedback. Also, thank you to all of you who have added it to your alerts and favourites!

This chapter was particularly hard to churn out for some reason, even though I've had the entire plot mapped out since the beginning. It's not long before the awaited reunion of Sherlock and John, and that's when things will really get moving.


	6. Volverte a Ver

**Icarus Burning**

**Chapter 6  
>Volverte a Ver<strong>

Sherlock has never been good at sitting still.

There's something inside him that needs to be in constant motion; a type of nervous energy that burns at the core of his being and propels him forever forward. It had been a constant source of trouble for his mother and teachers and was probably the reason that he has also never been particularly good at waiting.

Which is what he's doing now: waiting, waiting, waiting.

_What is taking her so __**long**__? _he thinks irritably, throwing himself down across the bed and snatching up his phone and staring at it as if he can will it into ringing. After passing a few moments in that way, he groans in frustration and flings it back onto the mattress.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the plain white ceiling, reaching absentmindedly for another Snickers bar that he'd gotten from the vending machine upstairs. While he acknowledges that it has little nutritional value, the candy had proven to be a cheap, easy way to maintain the necessary level of alertness. _Besides, calories are calories,_ Sherlock thinks in annoyance. _John should just be grateful that I'm eating anything at all._

The stray thought about John comes from nowhere and the surprise of it sinks into his stomach like the blow of a fist.

Ever since that night he had last checked John's blog, he would catch himself pretending that John was with him or that he was somehow back home. As much as he tries to block it, it keeps creeping back into his mind when he least expects it. When he had first arrived in Barcelona and was making his way about the city, he had come across a man playing the violin for money just outside of Barcelona Cathedral. The sound of it had stopped him in his tracks and kept him there for several minutes, closing his eyes and imagining himself far away. In an uncharacteristic act of charity, Sherlock had dropped a few Euros into the open case at the man's feet before moving on.

Sherlock palms the phone as he propels himself off the bed and goes over to his books and maps where they lay across the entertainment centre, taking the pen up and scribbling notes about the locations he had already been to as a means to pass the time. He is just making his remarks on the merits of La Boquerìa marketplace when his phone finally vibrates with a message from the Woman.

**Font màgica de Montjuïc. 21.**

There are no pet names or suggestive invitations, which Sherlock finds odd, but he is so eager to get out and moving that he gives it only a passing thought before he picks up a guidebook and begins flipping through the pages. He finds the section on Montjuïc complete with a small blurb on the "font màgica." Sherlock translates her text in the margin of the book: "Magic Fountain – 9 p.m," before setting the pen off to the side once more.

He memorizes quickly the various routes to get there, deciding on taking the subway so he wouldn't need to affect an elaborate disguise, simply fading in and out of the crowds of travellers. As he is about to put the guidebook back down, the map the guidebook had been laying atop of snags his attention.

It has a map of Barcelona on one side, but on the other, the side currently facing up, is a more general map of Europe. Sherlock feels an unusual tightening in his chest when he finds himself transfixed on England. He sets down the guidebook gently and slowly places his palm flat over the map, all the nervous energy drained from him suddenly. He touches an index finger to London and the tip of his thumb to Barcelona, his hand a momentary bridge between the two destinations making the distance between them feel infinitely smaller.

He mentally shakes himself and turns swiftly back to the centre of the room, bringing himself to focus sharply again at the task at hand. Sherlock contemplates donning his coat, feeling rather naked without it, but the breeze off the Mediterranean Sea was balmier than he's used to, so he tosses it gently across the end of the bed.

_I have to get out of here, I can't think – I'll waste time in la __Plaça d'Espanya, _he thinks briefly before storming out the door.

xoxoxoxox

_**This **__is the "safe house?" _

It wasn't quite what John had expected. When Mycroft had texted him the address of the safe house that Sherlock was using, he had anticipated something like what you see in films: some run-down apartment in the middle of the shoddy part of town where the doorman is a ruffian who looks like he'd floss with barbed wire. Not this: a bright and cheery hillside residence on the outskirts of the city.

John hitches his pack higher up on his shoulder and avoids a young couple who don't seem to realise that proper sidewalk decorum dictates they take up only one side at a time. It's been quite a steep climb up the hill, exhausting John more than he'd like to admit, and he is relieved when he is finally able to see his destination, a rather unimpressive white building that barely peeks over the massive hedge that hems around the property.

There's quite a racket coming from the other side of the hedge; boisterous laughter and conversations in languages that John isn't able to decipher. He ascends a few stairs and turns a corner, finally able to see the true face of the building. The front of it is mostly large plate glass windows, allowing a view through massive glass double doors into a large lobby area with a wide reception desk.

He pulls the door open with some trepidation and gets a better look at his surroundings. Milling about are several groups of young people, all about university age, speaking in foreign tongues and not sparing him more than a glance. They speak excitedly and head toward a common room area off to the left that is replete with billiard tables, vending machines, and posh furniture strewn with more young people bent over laptops. John stands to the side of the doorway and is able to see a veranda through more glass doors.

Here, finally, are people more John's own age. They recline in metal chairs, drinks held firmly in their fingers, speaking calmly and occasionally pursing their lips and glaring at the more raucous denizens that appear to be attempting a game of Frisbee.

John turns back to the lobby area, all white and clean. The only colour stems from the works of modern art hung periodically around the room. John spies a stand of brochures and maps of the city and crosses to take one from the top rack that has information about this so-called "safe house."

_It's a dormitory,_ John marvels, flipping through the pages and relieved to find the section printed in English. _It's a dormitory for travelling groups of students and what have you. _At first John's brows furrow in confusion and he feels a moment of blind panic that he'd come to the wrong place. He clambers for his phone and yanks it from his pocket and pulls up Mycroft's text. Turning the pamphlet over, he checks the address on the cover against the one that Mycroft had sent him: it's the same.

John has a sudden moment of clarity. _Of course! What better place to hide foreigners who come and go? _He slides his phone back into his pocket after re-reading the other text that Mycroft had sent him that morning. John had slept fretfully on the overnight train and awoken to find he'd missed two texts from Mycroft with instructions he was to follow precisely.

The young woman clacking away on the computer looks up smilingly as he approaches the reception desk. Her skin and hair are nearly the same tan colour, her eyes an unsettlingly bright blue and her teeth a dazzling white. She says something to him, but John speaks no more Spanish than can be found on a menu, so he just gives her a polite smile back before saying carefully to her,

"Hello, I've come to see my cousin who has just arrived from Bulgaria."

Her smile falters for only the briefest of seconds before she plasters it back on. She rises from her swivel chair in a fluid motion and reaches for a set of keys hanging next to the computer beside her.

"Yes, we've been expecting you," she says in perfect English, "If you'll kindly follow me."

She calls out to another woman in a room behind the desk, who comes out to take her place as she makes her way around the desk to John. She gestures gracefully with one tan arm and makes her way down the hallway to the right, her flowing skirt swirling around her ankles with each long stride.

John follows on her heels, his pulse racing as he takes in the minimalist hallway that is lined with doors like a hotel floor. Instead of ushering him inside one of these rooms, however, she leads him to a solid wood door with a sign that John suspects says "Employees Only." She twists a key in the lock and holds it open to allow him to pass by.

They are in a grey stairwell that twists down several floors and smells rather like a parking garage. Her thongs make slapping sounds against the cement as she descends the stairs wordlessly, John still following close behind. With every step, his heart beats faster. _It's happening. It's happening; I'm going to find Sherlock. She's taking me to Sherlock._

She stops on the landing only one story below the one they had come in on and opens the door there with another key. This door leads into a similar hallway; milky walls with several doors set in at even intervals. She walks forward to one that is unmarked and turns suddenly to face him, a card key extended in her hand. When he takes it tentatively from her, she smiles at him once again before disappearing back into the stairwell, leaving him all alone in the hall.

He can hear his heart pounding in his ears and his breaths are coming shorter now.

The entire ride from London to Paris, he had mulled over what Mycroft had told him about Colonel Sebastian Moran and his group, Ouroborous. But from Paris to Barcelona, all he had thought about was this moment… The moment he would finally see Sherlock. He had played it out so many times, practicing what he would say and contemplating what it would feel like to actually see him. Now that the moment is here, he finds himself paralysed by something akin to terror.

_What if he isn't glad to see me? What if he tries to make me go home? What if… _his thoughts drift off as he swallows against the hard lump that had formed in his throat. _Well, only one way to find out_.

He steels his nerves and slides the key card through the card swipe on the door, watching the little red light turn green. He gently turns the cool handle and pushes the door open. John moves into the room, flicking on the light switch by the door and shutting it behind him. The room is fairly small and bare and Sherlock…

is not there.

The disappointment nearly crushes him, his pack sliding off of his back to thud on the floor. John's eyes search the room, taking in the bed pushed against the centre of one wall, its rumpled sheets bespeaking that someone had recently slept there. There are food wrappers scattered around a bin at the foot of the bed, but it is the material that lies across one end that grabs John's attention.

He lumbers forward and snatches up what is unmistakably Sherlock's coat. The last time he'd seen it, it had been covered in blood; a death shroud. His fingers catch at it and turn it over and he is unable to stop himself from pressing his face into it and inhaling deeply. It smells like Sherlock.

Tears spring immediately to his eyes and he flumps onto the bed, fighting back the urge to sob. _He was here. He's alive._ He presses the thumb and forefinger to the corners of his eyes, his other hand clutching the coat to his chest, and breathes in deeply. _Thank you. Oh God, thank you._

_If Sherlock's coat is here, that means he'll be coming back. It's only a matter of time, _he thinks with a sigh of relief. When he opens his eyes again, they take in what appears to be an entertainment centre across from him. Spread across the top are several papers and books. Pushing himself up with a grunt of effort, he lays the coat back on the bed and goes to investigate.

They are all maps and guidebooks to the city, laid open to various landmarks with Sherlock's familiar handwriting scrawling notes here and there. John runs his fingers over a scribbled sentence, revelling in the sloppy scrawl that is further proof of his friend's vitality. As his eyes crawl across them, something catches his eye.

It is squeezed into the margin of a page about the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya: "**Magic Fountain – 9 p.m.**"

John's heart is beating quickly again. _Is this where Sherlock went?_ he wonders, pulling out his phone to check the time. There would be plenty of time to get there, but what if the note were old? What if, while he's out gallivanting about, Sherlock returned and then left without him? Can he really take that chance?

John paces in a circle in the small room, the book clasped tightly in his hands. He forces himself to stop, breathing in a steadying breath and trying to clear his head and finding it impossible.

xoxoxoxox

Sherlock's feet beat a steady rhythm with the multitudes around him as they make their way toward the art museum that rises in the distance. The museum itself looks like an artist's rendering of a government building, even more so because of the beams of light that radiate out from behind it like rays diffusing into the dark sky. The road leading toward the Magic Fountain is lined on either side with similar buildings and large fountains shooting dramatically up into the air.

The night air is a little more brisk than he had anticipated and he wishes that he had brought his coat with him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and lowering his head as a bus full of even more tourists rumbles by.

He pauses with a crowd of people, waiting to cross the busy thoroughfare that stands between himself and the pale steps that lead up to his destination. It isn't until he has crossed the street that he allows himself to go on full alert, his eyes scanning the crowd for any hint of the Woman. He continues to look for signs of her as he ascends the staircase and comes to find an even denser crowd of people loitering about what is, admittedly, one of the largest fountains he has ever seen.

He seeks out a better vantage point on the fringe of the group, where the space between bodies is not so compact. The border of the courtyard is lined with foliage and benches that are occupied by amorous couples or little old ladies. He sweeps his gaze across them but there is still no sign of Irene.

His attention is brought back to the fountain when sweeping music begins to play and indicate that the show has begun. The water in the fountain begins to leap and swirl in elaborate arches in time with the music that Sherlock vaguely places as the theme song of that movie John liked about seven men bent on destroying a piece of jewellery. Magnificent colours fade in and out of the water in an impressive array, but Sherlock is only barely paying attention to it.

Around him, those who are not aiming cameras at the fountain or posing for stupidly clichéd photos are either dropping their heads onto the shoulders of their loved ones or snogging shamelessly. Sherlock sneers slightly. _Leave it to her to choose a place so… "romantic." _ He shifts awkwardly as a couple nearby gets closer to him than he would like and he seeks out a place even further back from the scene, leaning against a tree.

Perhaps he was distracted by the music and spectacle of the lightshow or his preoccupation with seeking out Irene. Whatever the reason, Sherlock fails to notice the man coming up behind him.

He _does_ notice the feel of hard metal as that man grinds the tip of his gun into the small of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock's body goes rigid and his jaw tightens, grinding his teeth together, as the man slips a meaty hand onto his shoulder and leans forward to whisper in his ear,

"Why 'ello, Mister 'olmes. I gots instructions to bring you back wiff me now. So 'ow 'bout you come quietly, then – no fuss and no one gets 'urt, eh?"

But Sherlock isn't listening. He had considered this possibility; that he could be found out and that they would inevitably come after him. He has no doubts as to why Irene has yet to show and wonders if they captured her before or after she took down Juarez. _Most likely before_, _which would explain the lack of flirtation in the text earlier. I should have figured that. Stupid, stupid,_ he chides himself internally.

He turns his mind on his assailant. _Callouses indicate time spent fighting and handling weapons, including the Tokarev in my back. _He slides his eyes over the crowd, looking for any faces turned their way instead of at the fountain. _Most likely at least two others for back-up._ _If they wanted me dead, I would be dead right now. They must need me alive._

He is just calculating the mass of his captor and planning the manoeuvres he would need to employ to properly incapacitate him in order to make his escape when the gun is twisted out of his back and an unexpected shove sends him sprawling forward. Sherlock braces himself, scraping his hands and flipping over to take in the struggling figures behind him. With a spectacular punch, Sherlock's assaulter is sent flying into the bushes and his saviour turns, face flushed and breathing heavily as he reaches a hand down to help Sherlock up again.

But Sherlock's mind has screeched to a complete stop.

_John._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong> I'm sure the majority of you are thinking, "About damn time!" I must agree. Anyway, has anyone noticed the chapter titles are all songs? If you don't know Spanish, you should look up the translation for the lyrics to "Volverte a Ver" by Juanes! I think it's just perfect for this chapter/story so far. That, and it's just a nice song.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! You guys are what makes this process so much fun! ^_^


	7. Kiss With a Fist

**Icarus Burning**

**Chapter 7**

**Kiss With a Fist**

Time slows down.

Rather, time appears to slow down. Sherlock knows that this phenomenon is actually the amygdala storing extra sets of denser memories due to the incredible amount of adrenaline coursing through his body at the unexpected sight of his best friend. Here. In Barcelona.

He no longer sees the crowd in his peripheral vision, no longer feels the ground beneath his scraped palms – every sense narrows and focuses until he can only see John. The last time Sherlock had seen him, he had been staring down the barrel of his gun in a wintry graveyard. For a wild moment Sherlock wonders if this is not also a dream. Or a nightmare.

John's eyes are hard and ablaze with energy, his mouth set firmly in a no-nonsense line. With an effort, Sherlock wrenches his gaze away from John's face to the hand that is thrust toward him. The knuckles on his proffered hand are red from where they had impacted Sherlock's potential captor. It is this observation that snaps Sherlock back to reality.

They are in danger.

The man with the gun is still unconscious in the bushes, but his backup will be making their way toward them, no doubt well-armed. While they have been commanded to bring Sherlock back with them alive, he doubts they would have similar instructions for John. _No, they will kill him._

It occurs to him that, in all of the scenarios that he had anticipated and mentally prepared for, he had failed to account for the possibility that John would somehow find him. Because it was simply not possible. _He can't __**be**__ here. And yet, there he is. I have to get him out of here._

Time lurches back into real time, mere seconds having passed since he and John locked eyes.

And then time speeds up.

Sherlock ignores the startled gasps and murmurs of the pedestrians around them, their wary gazes travelling over John and the man sprawled in the shrubs. His hand flashes forward and seizes John's, who tugs him quickly to his feet again. Instead of relinquishing his grasp, Sherlock laces their fingers, throwing a brief glance over his shoulder at the two men pushing their way through the crowd around the fountain. He turns back to John, who is looking a bit startled now, and commands in a tone that comes out harsher and a little more breathless than intended,

"Run."

Without waiting for John to reply, Sherlock runs, dragging his doctor behind him as they weave through the crowd. Sherlock deliberately knocks over a young man who fails to get out of the way and is pleased when he looks over his shoulder to see that one of their pursuers has tripped over him in his haste. But the other has taken out a gun and is aiming it in their direction as they reach the top of the stairs leading down to the street.

Sherlock yanks John hard to the left just as the crack of the shot rips through the air over the sound of the music from the fountain that continues to sweep on epically in the background. There are screams in the crowd, which has come to life at the sight of the armed man and churns as people attempt to flee. But Sherlock doesn't look back again.

He is frantically thinking through all of the possible escape routes, taking the stairs two at a time, his hand like a vice on John's, who clasps his hand back equally hard. Just as they are almost at the bottom of the stairs, he spies the bus. The last few tourists are just climbing aboard when they reach it and Sherlock launches the pair of them on board right before the doors close behind them with a hiss of air.

Sherlock fumbles in his pocket for his metro card and passes it through the scanner twice, his breath coming in great gasps and his heart pounding so hard it almost hurts. The family seated near the back doors glares at them with fascination for a moment and then resume their conversation in Catalan.

As his breathing evens out and the bus lumbers forward, Sherlock steadies himself on one of the railings above him. For a moment, he just stands there breathing, but then his pulse picks up again when the calloused hand he is still holding squeezes his own.

_John._

He hesitates for a moment before turning to face the former soldier. John's face is flushed from the excitement and the exercise, breathing heavily through his mouth and staring at Sherlock with wide, unwavering eyes. The knuckles on his right hand are white where they wrap around the pole by the doors they had just come through.

As Sherlock watches, John shuts his eyes tightly, breathes through his nose until his breathing has quieted, and then opens them again. They bore into Sherlock and he takes note of an infinitesimal quiver in his mouth just before he presses his lips into a firm line.

They say nothing for the entire ride.

Sherlock does not relinquish John's hand, feeling like it is the only thing tethering him to reality at the moment. It is too much, suddenly, all of it. His thoughts come hard and fast, the vertigo induced by the power of his own mind threatening to send him spinning off the deep end, much as he'd done back when he'd been using in his late 20's. To focus himself, he sets to the task of analysing John, all the while the bus rumbles along, making its occasional stops to let passengers off and on.

_He's thinner – much too thin. He used to be so… solid. He hasn't been eating. And here I was making sure that I ate for him! That's a fairly new jumper, probably a present from Mrs Hudson, and he's already swimming in it – oh God! John's birthday! I missed it, that's right… His trousers are wrinkled from sitting for too long. Not a plane to get here then – a train. _

He rakes his eyes over the doctor, finally coming back up to his dark blue eyes that are still trained on Sherlock's face. Sherlock has a hard time figuring out exactly what that look is in John's eyes. He had thought he would see anger or resentment, but it's really more like… fear.

_Are you afraid of me, John? _Sherlock thinks the words but does not ask them, cocking his head slightly to one side. _What are you afraid of?_ _His eyes. He hasn't slept a whole night through for… at least three weeks. Nightmares. Are you dreaming of me, too, John? _

Sherlock finds that he can't look at his friend anymore and he closes his eyes when the memory of his nightmare comes to the surface of his mind like a spectre: John standing by his tombstone with gun outstretched and hatred in his eyes.

_This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to have time to come up with a plan. There was going to be a plan! He wasn't supposed to find out this way. Though, if he's here, he must have found out another way. Mycroft, fucking Mycroft, no doubt. He always ruins everything! Oh God, I've ruined everything. He hates me. Or if he doesn't, he will. He will hate me. I can't – I couldn't bear it if… It's too much, all of it. Too much. I missed you. God, I missed you so much, John._

John's hand squeezes his again and Sherlock clenches his jaw before opening his eyes to look at him again. John's eyes are filled with a look of concern now and Sherlock is dumbstruck when John takes his other hand and raises it slowly to wipe a finger gently across Sherlock's cheek, startling Sherlock by wiping away a tear he hadn't even realised he'd shed. For a few seconds, John's finger lingers on Sherlock's cheek, a spot of warmth that pierces through months of loneliness and cold.

Sherlock can't bear it any longer. He hauls John toward him with a sudden tug, letting go of his hand to clasp the doctor desperately to his chest. His hand cradles the back of John's head as the smaller man wraps his arms roughly around Sherlock's torso, burying his face in his shoulder and clutching at him as if he never has any designs to let go again. Pressing into the top of John's head, Sherlock inhales the comfortingly familiar scent of his best friend. All of the thoughts running through Sherlock's brain stop spinning and come back instead to the one word, repeated over and over:

_John._

xoxoxoxox

John doesn't remember the journey back at the dormitory.

He realises that they must have gotten off of the bus at some point to switch onto the subway, because he can vaguely recall the automated feminine voice calling out, "Proxima estaciòn… Vall d'Hebron." The ache in his legs and feet speak of their long trek through side streets and past the football fields at the bottom of the hill by the dorm. All of that is a blur. The only part that John remembers of the evening, in any real sense, is Sherlock.

He hadn't been able to wait patiently in the room for Sherlock to come back. After pacing back and forth, twisting his coat in his hands and glaring at Sherlock's handwriting in the book for several minutes, he knew that if he didn't get to see him as soon as damn well possible, he would go positively mad. The coat wasn't enough proof; he'd had to see him with his own eyes.

After disembarking from the train in Montjuïc, it hadn't been very hard to find the fountain. The sky was lit up around the building behind it like the runway at an airport, guiding John to his destination. He had been surprised by the sheer amount of people who had come to see a bloody fountain, but as he neared it, he was able to see that it wasn't just any fountain.

The show had already started when he'd begun climbing the stairs, and he noted that they were playing the theme from The Fellowship of the Ring, but John wasn't looking at the colourful swirls of water leaping into the air; he was busy examining the crowd for the familiar shock of messy black curls. He hadn't really given much thought as to **why **Sherlock would come to such a spot, but if he was there, then he was determined to find him.

And he did.

After snaking through the multitude, his heart leapt as he first took in the dark hair, then the high cheekbones, and then everything else fell into place. He'd been standing on the outside of the courtyard, , the fountain throwing colourful shadows across the severe planes of his face, arms crossed over his chest and a very Sherlock-like sneer on his face.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected to feel when he'd finally get to see Sherlock again. Over the last few weeks, John had run through the entire spectrum of human emotion; unmitigated sorrow, betrayal, hope, elation, desperation, and anger... All of it building up to that moment when he spotted Sherlock on the periphery of the courtyard and convalescing into a truth so blinding and shocking that his mind reeled with the force of what he actually felt upon seeing Sherlock again: love.

He _loves_ him.

Until that moment, he'd had no idea.

Before he was able to properly process this, a man had come up behind Sherlock and placed a hand down hard on his shoulder. From where he was, John could just make out the flash of metal as the man pressed a gun into Sherlock's lower back.

At that point, John's emotions had been shut off and effectively tucked away as he switched into soldier-mode. Before he'd really known what was happening, he had punched an armed man and was running after Sherlock like they had all those months ago when they'd fled from the police.

Upon making their escape onto the bus, he was finally able to return to normal. He squeezed his eyes shut and switched from John Watson, RAMC, back to John Watson, flatmate and tea-enthusiast.

Neither of them talked, which was just as well, because John was at a loss for what to say. He tried to keep the tremor out of the hand that clasped so tightly onto Sherlock's. That hand was so warm, real, and blessedly alive. He watched the detective's stony face as it swept over him, no doubt deducing every detail of John's existence over the last few months.

While Sherlock conducted his silent observations, John's heart shuddered back to life. It made so much sense now, everything. He loves Sherlock and probably has for a very long time. Everyone knew it. Irene Adler had known it. Mycroft, Lestrade, Angelo… anybody who read the ruddy paper or his blog probably suspected. Everyone had known but John. And perhaps Sherlock. But then Sherlock knew everything, so he probably knew as well.

Shocking John out of his reverie, Sherlock had closed his eyes and frightened John by shedding a single tear. John had seen Sherlock cry before; great crocodile tears for some conniving purpose or another. But this. This was different. This was real.

He hadn't been able to stop himself from reaching out to brush it away. The next thing he knew, Sherlock was hugging him. Hugging him! Sherlock's arms around him were the last things that felt real to John in their journey back to the dormitory.

He had followed after Sherlock at that point like a shadow, lost in thought. Sherlock did not take his hand again, and John longed for the reassuring pressure of his fingers in his, but he didn't dare. The scenery passed by, but John's eyes were fixed on the dark hair curling against the pale neck as Sherlock marched ahead.

Finally, they reached the safe house, going in a back way that John hadn't been through yet but arriving at the same room he had already been to that afternoon.

As John closes the door behind them, Sherlock finally speaks.

"John."

When John turns to look back into the dark room, he is startled to find that Sherlock is standing right behind him. Sherlock had never been much for personal boundaries, but after months of solitude, John is no longer accustomed to having him so close.

Sherlock is standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders squared and his jaw clenched in a hard line. His eyes are like quicksilver in the moonlight that comes in through the window, piercing through John in a way that sends a shiver down his spine. John is still unsure of what to say, so he clears his throat and gruffly replies,

"Sherlock."

"What are you waiting for?"

His question catches John off guard. _Waiting?_ He has no idea what Sherlock is talking about. Sherlock must be able to read as much in his expression because he soon says in a resigned tone,

"Go on; give me your best shot."

John is taken aback, it's so completely not what he had expected. _He thinks I'm going to hit him. And he's going to let me._ John thinks in amazement before sighing wearily. He brushes past Sherlock and walks farther into the room, turning to face him with another sigh.

"I'm not going to punch you, Sherlock."

Sherlock faces him with the same impassive expression.

"I've gone through every possible scenario and the only situation that would allow us to return to normal as quickly as possible is if you were to punch me and get it all out of the way with now."

"That's completely mental."

This was not how John had thought their first conversation would go. His is still feeling weary after their escape and not quite like himself, but it's Sherlock who is acting truly strange.

"Just punch me," Sherlock grinds out through gritted teeth, taking a step closer to John until he's once again a little bit too close.

"No. This is stupid, Sherlock, we should just get -"

He is cut off when Sherlock shoves him suddenly hard in the chest, thrusting him backwards. John is unable to stop the automatic anger that flares up then. Suddenly the haze he'd wandered through since getting off the bus lifts and he finds that he is rather pissed off. He knows that he is playing into Sherlock's hands by getting riled up, but that only makes him even more mad.

Sherlock is waiting for the punch when John throws it, catching him on the side of his face with a tremendous cracking sound. Sherlock stumbles, but John isn't through yet.

He launches himself at Sherlock, seizing him by the shoulder and moving him backward until he is pinned against the wall with a thud. He braces his forearm across Sherlock's shoulders so he cannot move, but the detective makes no motion to escape. He peers down at the seething doctor with determination and John brings his face dangerously close before hissing,

"There is no 'normal' for us, Sherlock."

Then, without thinking, without considering the possible repercussions, without even bothering to resist… John seals Sherlock's mouth in an angry kiss.

It lasts for only a moment, a harsh pressure of lips on lips, and then John wrenches away, releasing Sherlock from the wall. John's chest still heaves with anger and he glowers at Sherlock unapologetically.

Sherlock's hands are braced on either side of him, his hair dishevelled and a blossom of pink distinguishable on his cheek from where John hit him as he stares at John with narrowed eyes. John can practically see the cogs spinning in his brain as they glare at one another.

It is John's turn to be surprised when Sherlock pushes himself forcefully off of the wall and strides across the short distance between them…

And kisses him.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: The long awaited reunion! I'm terribly sorry that it took so long for me to finally upload this chapter. I had midterms and I decided to take my time to make sure I was satisfied with this instead of churning out something half-assed. Things are starting to pick up pace and I wanted to do it right.<strong>

**Anyway, thanks for reading! Send me a review and let me know what you think. ^_^**


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